Introduction to a screening of “Black Rain” at UC Berkeley on October 24, 2024, by Jon Pitt (Assistant Professor of East Asian Studies, UC Irvine). The screening was part of a series of events in fall 2024 around “Oppenheimer,” presented by the On the Same Page program.
Today we’ll be watching director Imamura Shōhei’s 1989 film Black Rain (Kuroi Ame), an adaptation of writer Ibuse Masuji’s novel of the same name, published in 1966. This screening is intended to serve as a counterpoint to Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer, as a kind of lead-in to a panel discussion to be held tomorrow titled “Oppenheimer’s Silences: The View from Japan.” Put in the simplest of terms, Black Rain shows us what Oppenheimer does not: the horrific effects of the nuclear bombing on the citizens of Hiroshima. Imamura is unflinching in his depiction of the immediate destruction of the bomb. Black Rain shows, in graphic detail, how the bomb melted human flesh, how it burnt bodies beyond recognition, how it, in an instant, unleashed hell on earth upon a population of nearly 350,000 residents of Hiroshima. These scenes are difficult to watch, horrific in a way that is nearly incomprehensible both to the characters in the film and to us as viewers. It’s easy to forget that this film was released in the late 1980s—it’s black and white cinematography and careful attention to historical detail bring us into the reality of August 6, 1945. But the film is about much more than this day. Like Oppenheimer, Black Rain moves between timelines, reminding us that the devastation of the atomic bomb did not end in August of 1945, but rather lingered on into the postwar in the form of radiation sickness, PTSD, and the social stigmas surrounding these afflictions. We see a stopped clock in the film, frozen in the moment the bomb detonated, but time marched on all the same, unforgiving and unconcerned with our human efforts at making sense of what happened on that day in August.
At the heart of Black Rain is the tragic figure of Yasuko, who, on August 6th, is fortunate enough to not be in the direct blast zone of the bomb, but unfortunately ends up coming into contact with the titular black rain—an atmospheric phenomenon in which the fires resulting from the bomb seeded the clouds with ash and radioactivity, which then rained down upon the city an hour to two hours after the explosion. As we will see, the stigma of Yasuko’s having been exposed to the black rain has serious consequences for her marriage prospects, as potential suitors introduced by a professional go-between tasked with setting up an arranged marriage for Yasuko turn her down repeatedly. It is here that the film is not only a condemnation of the US military’s decision to use nuclear weapons, but also a condemnation of postwar Japanese society and its treatment of hibakusha of victims of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
For all of its sorrow, pain, and terror, Black Rain is nevertheless a film about family and community, albeit one that finds strength in solidarity within unconventional familial configurations forged through nuclear exposure. There is kindness, patience, and acceptance on display in the film. Where Oppenheimer revels in its great man theory of history, Black Rain grapples with questions of perseverance, of sculpting a good life from irradiated clay. Throughout his much-celebrated career, director Imamura Shōhei pursued provocative stories to tell in film, from 1966’s The Pornographers to 1979’s Vengeance is Mine, which was based on the real life story of a serial killer in Japan. There is compassion legible in Black Rain that has prompted some critics to see the film as a “mellowing out” point in Imamura’s career. That a film willing to depict the events of August 6th, 1945 in such graphic detail can be seen as “mellow” speaks to the fact that Black Rain has much more to teach us than merely the shock of nuclear war. Rather, it has much to say about care work in wake of illness and trauma. It has much to say about resilience and the limits thereof. It has much to say about living and dying with nuclear radiation—something we can still learn much about today.
For indeed, the clock did not stop on August 6th, 1945, and rhetoric surrounding atomic weapons and nuclear legacies proliferate in our contemporary age. In 2020, a week before the 75th anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, Japanese courts finally recognized victims of “black rain” as hibakusha, which allowed them to finally receive the same benefits as other survivors of the bomb. In August of this year, billionaires Donald Trump and Elon Musk held a conversation on twitter in which the latter stated: ““People were asking me in California, are you worried about a nuclear cloud coming from Japan? I am like no, that’s crazy. It is actually, it is not even dangerous in Fukushima. I flew there and ate locally grown vegetables on TV to prove it. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were bombed but now they are full cities again.” Trump responded, in turn, “That’s great, that’s great.” Earlier this month, the Japan-based ant-nuke organization Nihon Hidankyo (which was formed in 1956) was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The official press release says of the organization: “These historical witnesses have helped to generate and consolidate widespread opposition to nuclear weapons around the world by drawing on personal stories, creating educational campaigns based on their own experience, and issuing urgent warnings against the spread and use of nuclear weapons. The Hibakusha help us to describe the indescribable, to think the unthinkable, and to somehow grasp the incomprehensible pain and suffering caused by nuclear weapons.” Although it is a work of historical fiction, Black Rain helps us think the unthinkable, and serves now, perhaps more than ever, as an urgent warning. Thank you all for being here today, and without further ado, Imamura Shōhei’s Black Rain.